The Land Shark

by Tavern Tales

Rating: everyone
Tags: Tragedy, Adventure
Length: 2663

Join Wishmael as he narrates a tale of heroism, revenge and love lost while in pursuit of a legendary land shark.

Join Wishmael as he narrates a tale of heroism, revenge and love lost while in pursuit of a legendary land shark.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-14 16:40:47 UTC

Call me Wishmael.

Call me Wishmael. I confess it is not the name that my mother felt compelled to call me, but I always liked it and we storytellers do enjoy giving ourselves fanciful pen names. So for the sake of this narrative it is how we shall refer to me.

Being a writer and pony of restless nature I have never felt it best to sit at my desk and wish to Celestia that a story might walk into my head. Instead, I have often answered the call of the open road and taken it's many paths to various locales in hopes of

experiencing something of interest that I could then put to paper. An it was while walking one of these paths that I came to the city of Sandlot.

Located on the edge of the great Namib desert. Sandlot had, by my arrival, become THE stop for many an airship that had traveled over the great dunes. Merchants unloaded their various wares from places yet to be put on a map. Eagerly they traded and sold to customers that had likewise traveled many a mile, all for the chance to give up their gold for an exotic purchase. An what purchases they were.

As I made my way down the many streets my eyes beheld things that would take the rest of this book to tell about. Trees that grew upside down. Clothing that changed color based on the mood of its wearer. Cups, filled with drink, that no matter how many times you sipped, they would never run dry.

I could have kissed the ground I walked on for leading me to such a place. Surely this was were I would find the experience that would translate into my new novel.

I decided then and there I would once again take passage on one of those vessels of the sky. It would be a nice change of pace for me as well. The road had been very dull lately. The only conversations I had had at night was my pen putting words to paper. The talks with my fellow shiphoofs that I could strike up would be welcome change to the silence of my past few evenings.

Being a seasoned wanderer I knew that the best place to obtain information on anything, including airships, would be at one of the local taverns. They are after all , a market place like any other. The coin is the drink that flows from the many barrels of the bartender and the goods that coin buys are the tales from the patrons, whose lips are quickly loosened once a mug is put in front of them. Perhaps after gifting a local with a free drink I would learn of when the next ship would be leaving port.

My mind made up, I struggled against the tide of bodies that filled the streets. Gazing up at the various signs that adorned the buildings my eyes searched for word like “inn” “bar” and “saloon.” It was not long before I happened on one that read “The Black Sands Tavern.” Thanking my luck I waded my through the ever moving sea of bodies to the entrance.

Upon entering I felt that familiar sensation of being home. It may sound strange to one who spends their whole life in one town, but for those of us who have that bad habit of not staying put a tavern is the closest thing we know to a home.

After my eyes had adjusted to the darker atmosphere of being indoors I noticed that was the only customer. The bartender, did not even notice my arrival, being occupied with the cleaning of one of his cups. I walked up to a table and threw a few coins down.

As I expected, the sound of circular metal hitting wood found its way to the ears of the bartender. With speed that would have made the wonderbolts consider recruiting him, the fellow was at my side. Grinning ear to ear, his smile told me he was eager to relieve me of the burden of my cash.

“What will you be ordering sir?” he asked.

“A cup of your best cider and a plate of whatever your cook might have left over,” I answered.

Picking up the coins I had put down. The bartender, who told me his name was “Running Tab” ran to the back of the room and exited through a set of swinging doors. Soon he returned balancing on his head a cup of cider and a plate of steamed broccoli covered in melted cheese.

As I dined I inquired about when a ship might be leaving port as I wished to seek passage. “Running Tab” informed me that the only one who knows when a ship is coming our going out of Sandlot is its captain. They usually stayed in port for as long as their goods needed selling and only after the last customer had bought the final item would a ship even consider heading back out over the desert.

If the bustle of the afternoon was any indication I knew that such a day would be far off. Deciding I did not want to give up on my quest to head out over the far reaching sands. I made up my mind it would be best to rent a room and see what tomorrow would bring.

I asked Running Tab if he had any beds that needed feeling. He told me that they were full, but if I did not mind sharing a room with a fellow traveler then he could accommodate me. I told him that such an arrangement was fine, though I was not ready to settle in right away.

The noise of the street was enticing and it was the middle of the day so I saw no need to head to my room right away. I thanked Running Tab for his service and said that I would be back at nightfall to bed down.

Leaving my saddle bags in the good pony' care I headed back out through the doors to see what stories Sandlot could provide me for my next novel

The Roommate

The room was small, but comfortable. A fire had been made for me and its flames warmed the air against the desert night chill. A supper of carrots and cabbage laid waiting on the table near the the sofa.

My eyes wandered around, searching for the pony I was to share my living space with. There seemed to be no sign of anyone having been there except Running Tab. The mystery of who my roommate was to be would have to remain unsolved for the time being.

Warming myself by the fire I sat down and enjoyed my meal, takeing care not to eat it all. I Figured that when my roommate did arrive they may care for something to eat as well. It can be said that a nice gesture can lead to an agreeable relationship between too lodgers. Since I would be sharing living space with this pony for a little while I figured it would be good to start off on the right hoof.

The hours past and the bed called to me . I felt a slight disappointment at my fellow traveler still not making an appearance. The upside to it, the bed was all mine. No worry of having someone else hog the sheets. My need for sleep overcomeing I retreated to the embrace of the waiting bed.

I can not say for how long I slumbered, only that it was well into the night if not right before dawn when I was wakened by the sound of the door creaking open. My first waking thoughts were ones of disgruntlement. Was my fellow lodger so insensitive that they could not at least attempt to enter the room quietly? Whatever grudges I was beginning to feel for my sleep being taken away were soon held in check with the resurgence of my curiosity.

What kind of a queer pony would come in a such an hour when most folks had already been to bed. I peered my head out from under the sheets to get my first gaze of my roommate.

The darkness of the room worked against me as all I could make out was a cloaked figure rummaging about. He sat a satchel down by the sofa and walked over to the fire place to put a log on and rekindle the flames that had long since died down to just mear embers.

As he continued into his labors it occurred to me that this pony was completely unaware of my presence. Upon this revelation I decided for my own enjoyment that I would withhold knowledge of my being there for the time being.

I can hear the disapproval from you dear reader. No doubt you are condemning such an action and thinking quite less of my character.

“Why Wishmael, why would you want to hide in the dark and spy on some poor weary traveler?” you probably ask.

A writers curiosity, is all the defense I can use to shield myself from your judgment.

I wished to see what strange activities this pony might indulge himself in when he felt no one was watching.

The object of my curiousity had by this time got the flames roaring in the fire place again. Their light cut away at the dark that had come to engulf the room. I feared for a moment I might be exposed by said light. To my relief the cloaked pony seemed to concerned with making himself comfortable by the fire and finally cast off his cloak.

It became apparent that my mental label of “he” had been gravely misused. For the creature that sat before me, seemingly oblivious to my presence, was indeed a “her.” What a beautiful her she was as well.

Her body had a strong build to it, telling me she was no stranger to labor. Upon her person were various rings and necklaces whose designs hinted to some tribal significance. Her coat was a pattern of black and white stripes that went all the way down her body. “Zebra” was the word that entered my mind.

Being a pony of a well read nature, I am one of the few who have come across the scarce books that give descriptions of these people. They originated from a continent far away from Equestria but through various means have made their way to the kingdom. Little is known about their culture and practices.

Still unaware of my presence my roommate shifted her attention to the satchel she had brought. From the depths of her bag she produced a pot, colored vials and what I could only had been led to believe were some various fruits and vegetables, though their names were foreign to me. The pot was placed neatly in the fire place and the contents of the vials emptied into it. She then began to put the fruits and vegetables in as well. Holding them up at eye level and inspecting them, though what imperfections she was looking for were unknown to me.

She then noticed the tray that I had left before I went to bed. Walking over she inspected it, sniffed the leftovers with her nose then added them to her strange brew. The pleasant aroma filled the room and started to make my mouth water.

I dared not reveal myself though. I doubted she would take kindly to my spying on her. Better to stay hidden for the moment.

The zebra continued with her labor. She reached back into her bag and withdrew two bowls and sat them on the table. I thought the action odd since she thought she was alone in the room.

Turning her attention to the fire and her pot she spoke for the very first time.

“My food is almost done cooking ow one who is hides in the bed looking. It's taste is nice filled with flavor and spice. There is enough for me plus you, would my roomate like a dinner for two?”

Shipmates

I have read that destiny can make for some strange bedfellows. Never was the truth of that text more evident than with the pony that I found myself dining with.

“More stew for your bowl, it will feel your stomach and nurture your soul?” she asked as she went about refilling her own dish.

I nodded my head and passed her my bowel. Smiling, I she gave me my refill and passed it back. I stared at the contents. I racked my brain for names of the various items that floated in the broth, but my knowledge on cuisine was limited at best so no nothing came.

“Delicious,” I said as I relented on my need to know what I was eating and resigned myself to the simple enjoyment of eating it.

My new friend, who called herself “Zecora” smiled at my compliments of her cooking.

Ours had been a pleasant dinner, despite the peculiar way in which it had started. More than once I had felt the need to apologize for spying on Zecora. She dismissed my offense away as nothing, rather she was happy to have someone to talk to during her stay at the inn.

Through out our dinner we engaged in small talk. As a precaution I was selective in what I revealed about myself. I told only that I was a traveling scribe with an urge to once again take to the air in a ship bound for some fantastic voyage. Zecora seemed to be a trustworthy soul, but there are many reasons why I go by the alias “Wishmael” than just to have a fancy pen name.

Likewise, she was not so charitable with her own origins. While this irked the writer in me, who would have loved to record the secrets of a pony so exotic as a zebra. I was resolved to be respectful of her privacy much in the way she was being towards mine.

I learned only that she was traveling Equestria in search of a place to settle down and call home. To accomplish this, she hired herself out as a cook to the various airships that came and went through the ports. It was her hope that one day she might dock in a place were she felt she could stay permanently.

The contrast of our reasons for travel were not lost on me. I took to the skyways to escape the doldrums of home, while Zecora braved them in an attempt to find a place to call her own. Somewhat ordained that our paths would cross.

I reasoned that such a meeting was meant to amount to more than a single meal followed by a farewell the next morning. I took into acount my earlier precations concerning her charater and never blindly trust a pony you just met, but I sensed no malice or trouble would come from her. With this logic, I gave a rather bold proposal to the zebra.

“Zecora,” I asked

“Why don't we take up and be shipmates for a while? The road and sky can be a lonely place when you don't have a friend to walk alongside you. Also Together you and I have more chance of finding a captain that will be leaving Sandlot than if we were to search independently,” I reasoned.

“Long I have traveled the sky to there and back again. Though I have met many ponys few offered to be my friend.”

“Well consider me one of the few then. What do you say.”

Zecora looked away for a moment contemplating it.

“A friend to travel with would the nice and well. On what kind of ship should we set sail?”

“The one with that leads to the best story.” I repleid